


Delta Waves

by SadisticbutSweet



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt, potential mild spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadisticbutSweet/pseuds/SadisticbutSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could possibly scare and frighten one of the most brilliant minds that ever lived? </p>
<p>Robert wonders the same thing. </p>
<p>(prompt from tumblr: Write about Rosalind having a nightmare, from Robert's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delta Waves

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, look. Sadie can write for more than one fandom! 
> 
> This is for a lovely anon on tumblr who requested the Lutece Twins. I loved this prompt because it let me work in one of my favorite Rosalind headcanons for why her morality and personality diverges slightly from Robert's. (She's a bit sterner, more fatalistic, at least in how I interpret her.) Super excited, and I hope you all enjoy it as well!

Rosalind is prettiest when she sleeps, Robert decides. There’s a certain vulnerability that she finds in sleep, her body sinking into the too-large comforter, her hair a halo. On the bedside table all of her bobby pins are set in neat piles, the handiwork of her and Robert’s careful hands as they pulled them free. Her face isn’t screwed up in thought, and no numbers rush through her head faster than most people could comprehend. She is peaceful, breathing in slow, steady motions.

Robert sometimes stays awake with a book so he may glance over from time to time, watchful, reassuring himself she’s actually there. Sometimes she catches him, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. She’ll purse her lips, roll over, and softly demand he turn off the light. (Whether he does or not is irrelevant, as she drifts off before he can even act.) Other than those fleeting moments of lucidity, however, Rosalind doesn’t speak or move in her sleep. She lays on her back, laces her fingers over her stomach, and wakes much the same way.

For this reason alone, perhaps, Robert starts when he hears a gasp. It’s soft and barely there, but he hears it none the less. An abnormality in weeks, months, of an established pattern.

When he looks over at his sister, she’s rigid. Her hands are tight in the sheets and she’s breathing in tight, sharp bursts. Very slowly her lips move, but no words leave. Even in the midst of a nightmare, Rosalind is reserved in her actions.

Robert shuts his book and sets it by his feet. “Rosalind?” he whispers, reaching over to touch his sister’s shoulder. He gives her a gentle shake, causing her to jerk under his touch, whimpering. It’s a sound he’s never heard from her - tiny and scared.

“Sister, wake up!” Robert calls, soft but firm, and shakes her again. “It’s a nightmare, Rosalind, wake up!”

Rosalind’s eyes fly open and she chokes on what starts to sound like a scream, and Robert barely catches her hands as they try to push him, and holds tight when she tries to pull back. He holds both of her hands close to his chest, gently brushing his thumb across her knuckles as her breathing levels and slows. Rosalind stills and, after long minutes seem to have dragged by, sinks back into the comforter.

Rosalind’s eyes slowly slip back shut, but she’s too tense to be asleep. Robert breaks the silence first, asking, ”Tea?”

Her response is drowsy, only barely audible. “Only if there’s whiskey, or something equally mind numbing.”

“You don’t drink -“

“Haven’t drunk.”

Robert clicks his tongue, and kisses her knuckles. “Are you going to tell me what frightened you?”

“It’s -” She hesitates, an action so decidedly not Rosalind that Robert squeezes her hands in support. “It’s silly, Robert. We should -“

”You should tell me,” Robert says, and releases her hands, settling in beside her.

Rosalind hums and opens her eyes, looking up at the ceiling. She drapes her hands in her lap, left over right, and sighs. “I nearly went to art school, did you know that?” Rosalind starts, and Robert nods. He does know - he almost did so himself, and in another life he’s certain he did. “My parents wanted me to follow that venue, said I had talent. It was expected of me, because of the unfortunate consequence of my birth.” She lifts a hand and waves, noncommittally, lazily, at herself.

It takes Robert only a moment to understand. “Your gender?”

“A single chromosome and suddenly a person’s wants don’t matter,” Rosalind murmurs, scoffing. “In the dream I saw myself, Robert, as I could’ve been. Have been, In another life, a different timeline. I saw a domestic little wife for some businessman. I saw my paintings, things I’d only envisioned, on the walls. I heard a child crying out for me - for ‘mother’. It was all very mundane, ordinary, and -“

She pauses, and tilts her head to look at Robert. Her voice shakes just barely. “And I do not believe I have ever seen myself so unhappy as I was then, staring at my reflection in a cup of water.”

“Of course,” she starts, looking away and clearing her throat, “it couldn’t end there, could it? I ran out of there, furious at myself for allowing myself to settle for less than I could be. As I walked I swear I heard Father speaking to me. I remember he told me, the day I left for Harvard, that I’d never get anywhere. No one would want a woman working for them, and I couldn’t ever hope to actually achieve anything with my studies. I’d never find a husband.” 

“I think that’s a favor to the male populace, dear sister. I doubt any of them could handle your charm and scathing wit,” Robert comments, and it has the desired effect. Rosalind chuckles and smiles, reaching over to grab Robert’s hand.

“Yes, well, Father -“

”- was a very narrow-minded man who could not comprehend how brilliant his child was purely because of her gender.” There’s a voice in the back of his head, a distant memory from years ago, telling him to go make something of himself. An artist was not a respectable job title. Robert swallows thickly and wraps his arms around Rosalind, pulling her against him and pressing his lips to her forehead.

“Robert?”

“You are beautiful and you are brilliant and if he could see you now -“

”- we could inform him that him and his opinions can take a short walk and a long drop off the edge of Columbia?” Rosalind suggests.

“Yes, exactly.”

Rosalind shifts until she can wrap her arms around Robert’s neck, burying her face into his night shirt. He can feel her soft smile when she kisses the fabric.

“What did I ever do without you, dear brother?”

“Strange,” Robert murmurs, shutting his eyes. His arms tighten around the woman slowly drifting to sleep in his arms. He rests his chin gently on her head. “I often wonder the same thing.”


End file.
